Nina327
TouchMeNot
- Joined
- May 26, 2010
- Posts
- 18,308
Delia was in a fine mood when she entered her space that evening. The old college rented out its classrooms and whatnot to anyone willing to pass a background check, agree to the surveillance in the corridors, and pay rent.
She liked the space because no one fucked with her space. No one fucked with her. She could blast music at rave level satisfaction at two in the morning, and no one cared because the building is in an industrial park.
Throwing shit around, she hunted through her canvases and other supplies, trying to find a specific color for her next piece. She worked with many media, and on the walls were canvases of paint and pencil, moss curtains with crystals and dried cicada shells, tattoed leather sculptures, and bones; bleached, bronzed, painted, and covered in runes.
The room was a tall, celinged former ‘updated’ science classroom. When the plumbing went into the building, this room and the one alongside it had drains put in, the floor sloped, and was tiled. The acoustics were perfect for her, and the ceiling height allowed her to install a swing in the center of the room. It was fantastic for thinking and planning while listening to nearly deafening music. Her younger self would be so jealous.
Grumbling, she kept searching and tossing and searching. The tossing was why she was searching. She knew, KNEW, she was not out of her specially mixed crimson cross acrylic paint. She just didn't need it in her last piece weeks ago and had tossed it out of the way.
She should probably put lids on the bins so she didn't have to look inside them every time she was looking for something, but if there were lids on things, then things couldn't jump out at her and tell their story. She squealed and did a terrifically idiotic dance when she finally found her two freaking quart half-buckets of Crimson Cross paint. It was in a bin of jawbones.
“Would have been funny if it broke open,” she informed the uncaring bones. She got halfway back to her current piece before the idea sprang up, and she changed projects entirely.
Setting up a set of multiple canvases, she dipped a jawbone in the paint can and used it to slash and scrape at the canvas. It would be the backdrop to a puzzle set where the foreground was something beautiful and soft.
An hour in, she was spattered in blood-shaded paint and was swinging a ‘bloody’ jawbone at the canvas when she heard a “Holy Shit” come from somewhere near the doorway. She had gotten sidetracked. She hadn't yet shut the door nor turned on her music.
She liked the space because no one fucked with her space. No one fucked with her. She could blast music at rave level satisfaction at two in the morning, and no one cared because the building is in an industrial park.
Throwing shit around, she hunted through her canvases and other supplies, trying to find a specific color for her next piece. She worked with many media, and on the walls were canvases of paint and pencil, moss curtains with crystals and dried cicada shells, tattoed leather sculptures, and bones; bleached, bronzed, painted, and covered in runes.
The room was a tall, celinged former ‘updated’ science classroom. When the plumbing went into the building, this room and the one alongside it had drains put in, the floor sloped, and was tiled. The acoustics were perfect for her, and the ceiling height allowed her to install a swing in the center of the room. It was fantastic for thinking and planning while listening to nearly deafening music. Her younger self would be so jealous.
Grumbling, she kept searching and tossing and searching. The tossing was why she was searching. She knew, KNEW, she was not out of her specially mixed crimson cross acrylic paint. She just didn't need it in her last piece weeks ago and had tossed it out of the way.
She should probably put lids on the bins so she didn't have to look inside them every time she was looking for something, but if there were lids on things, then things couldn't jump out at her and tell their story. She squealed and did a terrifically idiotic dance when she finally found her two freaking quart half-buckets of Crimson Cross paint. It was in a bin of jawbones.
“Would have been funny if it broke open,” she informed the uncaring bones. She got halfway back to her current piece before the idea sprang up, and she changed projects entirely.
Setting up a set of multiple canvases, she dipped a jawbone in the paint can and used it to slash and scrape at the canvas. It would be the backdrop to a puzzle set where the foreground was something beautiful and soft.
An hour in, she was spattered in blood-shaded paint and was swinging a ‘bloody’ jawbone at the canvas when she heard a “Holy Shit” come from somewhere near the doorway. She had gotten sidetracked. She hadn't yet shut the door nor turned on her music.
